


Hero of Mine

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Caretaking, Dean Whump, Dean Winchester Whump, Demons, F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gentle Kissing, Hurt Dean, Hurt Dean Winchester, Injured Dean, Kick-ass Reader, Kidnapped Dean, Kidnapping, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Reader-Insert, Vampires, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 19:18:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11720805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: Dean goes missing while he’s out getting dinner.  You go to get Dean the hell back.





	Hero of Mine

**Author's Note:**

> For @deansdirtydutchess #Melissa Celebrates! I got 37. Someone is kidnapped coz I had an itch for helpless Dean. Judge me however you like. My never ending thanks to Charlie @deandoesthingstome for being so betaful

“Sa-ham?”

“Hey, what’s up? I wasn’t expecting a call from you,” Sam answers. He sounds half distracted. “Can’t be bored with each other already.”

You run along the curb, out of the crowd but on the pavement so drivers won’t have to swerve, and dodge the bins and poles.

“What happened to Let’s see where this goes?” Sam jokes.  “I thought it’d be gone there alre-”

“Sam, s-something’s wrong.”

“What kinda wrong?” Sam asks, his tone switching to exactly how worried you feel.

“He’s been gone too long.”  The junkfood joint is down the end of the block, but you can’t see inside it yet.  “And that warehouse,” you talk in shorthand, around the puffing, “too quiet.”

“Where are you? Same town?” You’re trusting, pretty reliably, Sam’s already got the GPS on Dean up and tracking.  It helps that he already knows which town you’re in.  Thankfully the streets aren’t busy and you can jog at a decent speed.  You can see the glow of the diner’s windows on the footpath, two sets of lights away.

“I’m on 12th… headed north, to- wards- the diner.  He left… 40 minutes ago….  You got him yet?”

“Not yet.”

The intersection makes you slow enough to stop jolting your words.  “That warehouse was too damn quiet. Too… too fuckin’ neat,” you puff and wait for Sam to do his end…  “I bet they’re watchin’ us.”

“Hmm…” he acknowledges. “Almost got it…”

You jaywalk - jayjog - across the last crossing and shift to the walls to approach, quickly seeing no one the likes of Dean in there.  You push air out your nose to help calm your breathing. A discreet look in the corners and still there’s nothing. “Now?”

“I’m not getting him.”  Sam’s words are terse and low, and then you hear him start to pack.  “I can be there in 90.”

“I’m gonna check the rooms in here. Head back and clear ou. Text you when I know something.”

“Take care.”

“Yup.”

There’re several customers waiting for their food. None of them pay you much mind as you walk past and head down the side; they’re all scowling at the kitchen, fiddling with their watches and phones.  From the end of the counter you can see fries and burgers neglected, and no one in sight.  The door that says WC has the single toilet, which is unoccupied, so you come back and shoulder your way through the plastic curtain, drawing your gun.

On the other side, the smell of overheated oil scalds your nose and stings your eyes.  A tall man lays on the tiles, face down in his blood.  The puddle has stopped spreading.  You creep past to the back and find tell-tale signs of struggle - wood roughly chipped from the doorframe, heel furrows in the dusty gravel out back, and Dean’s smashed phone by the dumpster.

You loop around to the street and make a short 911 call.  “I think I can see a dead body,” you start, and give them the address before feigning a panic attack and hanging up.  Across the street, you thank everything the Impala is here and untouched. You’re in and out of the motel room and on the road in about 10 minutes.

…

If this isn’t who has Dean, you’re in deep shit.  Because this is the noisiest arrival you’ve ever declared while solo.  You pushed Dean’s Baby to get here and she didn’t mind one bit.  Sam won’t even be half way - but you can’t keep yourself from attack.  Can’t sit still.  Can’t be sensible.  They have Dean.

Someone has Dean.

And now that you’re here, you find you can go quietly, you can be measured and careful.  Because they might have Dean and you’re fucking well getting him back.

No one catches you at the entrance, and no one meets you past the door, but there’s a light inside the broad space of the warehouse, and the sound of shifting shoes.

From the darkness you find an angle where you can see them.  Three, all men.  You raise your gun, double checked with devil’s trap bullets, and step out toward the light.  All of them wait for you to talk.

On the edge of the glow, you look at them, the one facing you and the other two well back.  They know you know.

“Bring him out then.”

“Oh but he’s not ready.”  

Something in you says they’re demons.  Only demons calculate like this, lean back for the show like this.  

One of them calls out towards a door at the back, a simple “Hey! Bring’im!”

They wait, unhurried, watching you, and your aim waits too.

Shuffling and grunts, thudded door and puffing, Dean’s marched into the space.  The one who has him is tall, strong enough to make Dean’s feet trip and skid as he’s pushed upward.  

You keep your aim, and record things with your peripheral vision.  Two more assholes join the crew, making six, and Dean’s presented to you on the leader’s left.  Sweat shines across him, staining the lines and corners through his grey t-shirt, and running over the tape gag.  His shoulders twist from wrists roped behind him and he grunts when his knees hit the ground, sagging and puffing… he’s been beaten.

“Have a look, Sweetheart,” the delivery guy says.  He takes a knee behind Dean, grabs his chin and pulls him back to expose his throat in the yellow light, spread knees straining against the denim.

The guy yanks on the collar of Dean’s shirt: his anti-possession tattoo is cut.  He smears the blood up Dean’s neck, drags it with his hands, saying “Tastes like he’d be a sweet vessel.”  He lashes a hungry tongue up Dean’s neck, collecting red as he goes.  What energy Dean has left is spent on frowning, fighting the hold, but he’s still leaning against the guy for support.

You haven’t moved.

“Vampires?” you check, “Working with demons?”

The leader nods, the others grin.  “You think you can tell who’s which?”  His smile is dazzling.  He thinks he’s so clever.

“You three are the demons,” you decide, indicating the first trio you met.  “You’re the vampires,” you tell the one’s who brought Dean.  Maybe they don’t notice the fattening of their gums when blood’s let free.

The leader blinks, but covers it.  “You seem very sure about that.”  He says it like a question, and not like it’s a mistake.

The light is bright and high.  Shadows drive down like black wine, and when the demons shift enough you can tell, there’s no pulse on their necks, no sign of life at all.

One,  
Two,  
Three shots. The demons are stuck under the bullets, stunned into silence. You tuck the gun and pull out your machete, shifting left and away from Dean to challenge the vampires.  One attacks, growling with spit.  You take two hits but finish him quickly, just quick enough before you lose your footing against the second’s fast approach.  He’s big, and he’s got heft, so you move around, using halting speed and making him throw himself harder than he can catch, and everything’s a very frikken close call for a few goes.

“Hey!”

Blade raised ready, you pull against instinct and pause long enough to see a glint against Dean’s neck, threatening teeth a few inches from that.

“Back off!”

You give a few feet, but keep your weapon high and your muscles sprung.

“Back off, or I’ll bite him.”  He pulls on the blade and Dean pulls back, away from the edge and into the vampire’s shoulder.  Dean doesn’t make eye contact, tries to breathe through the threat, and the inky shadows of him, his tight jaw and driven brow, the line of his collarbone and shoulder, it all blends with the shine and stains in a sinister tableau.  

“I don’t even know if I wanna turn him or not.  But I’m gonna fuckin’ bite him because you’ve _fucked up our plans.”_

“There’re lots of demons around,” you say.  “In fact, your demons are still here, they’re just stuck. Why not just-”

“You think I’m going to do the ‘Reveal the intricate plot just before I kill him’ thing?”  He laughs, sitting up to talk to you and letting Dean’s tired neck slip into the crook of his elbow.  “I’m not fuckin’ stupid bitch!  Drop your goddamned blade!”

He tightens his grip on Dean and slips the knife enough to break the skin, a thin red stripe sluicing into his shirt, and Dean winces, fights to stay quiet as his chest heaves under the light.

“Okay!” You hold your hands up.  “Okay.”  Slowly you kneel, placing the blade on the floor.

“Good girl.”

The big guy approaches, and Dean’s captor shoves him forward, bending Dean down hard enough that he almost bangs his head on the concrete.  

Everything is interrupted by the gravelly voice of a trapped-but-not-dead demon. “Kill her, keep him. His brother’ll get here soon enough.”

The distraction is enough and you draw your gun again, shooting Dean’s vampire as it still kneels behind him, right in the upper front teeth.  The bullet won’t trap him, but it does get stuck in the back of his head and he reels back, falling onto his shoulders, his legs twisting out from under him and he screams gargled at the pain.

“Kill her!!” One of the demons yell, and they start to coach from their places.  “Fuckin’ _take her head off!!”_

The big guy turns back to you, having realised what you’ve done, and you shoot him in the eye.  He bellows “RAAAAHA, AAAHAHA!” clawing the air in front of his face.  

“Rip her throat out you pussy!”

You snatch your blade off the floor, calling “Stay down!” to Dean as you get beside him, swinging at the distraught vampire behind him before he can find his knife again.

“Useless freaks!”

Then the last one is still there, puffing spit, crying blood from his eye socket, and near manic with vengeance.  

“Take her! You can take _her!_ Eat her!”

He readies to lunge for you, crooked without the depth in his vision, and you twist to shoot him in the other eye, or close enough.  He wails again, and you step up to get a swing that’s clear of his flailing arms.

“Fucking BIIITCH!” The leading demon shudders in his spot, watching you scramble over to Dean.  “We’ll fucking _find_ you and _flay you for a year!”_

“Hey! Hey you okay?”  With both hands you help Dean sit up, thumbs before his ears, and check him, watching him open his eyes.  “Give us a look, hey?  Can you see me?”

Dean looks straight at you, as requested, but there’s not much in it.  He sways when your hands leave him, staying up long enough for you to find that dagger, then you’re back, guiding his head to your shoulder as you reach around and work on the ropes without cutting him.

“You hear me?!” The demon threatens some more.  “We will get this done!  And there isn’t a single place in this _goddamned_ country you can hide-”

Dean’s arms fall free, the relief folding him forward, heavy and loose and you grab his shoulders, squeeze them through his gasping and grunting.  “This is gonna be awkward, but trust me-”

“You think I can’t find another blood sucker to turn him? They fought for it.  Fucking auditioned to sire the fucker.  And Dean Winchester as-”

Climbing onto Dean’s lap, you stop listening to the rage and tell him “Take a deep breath okay? They can’t get passed me.”  You press his head to your chest, hug his ears between one hand and your tattoo, and wrap the other around his head to cover his nose.  

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…” You say the words loud and clear, watch the bodies fall as the black smoke swims from their mouths.  They swirl around you, howling and cold, and circle up and away, out of the building.

When it’s quiet, and everything else is still, you move and hear Dean grunt heavily at the release.  His hands are dumb on your back, and he’s started to shake all over.

You push on his chest to help him stay up, then slide off his legs and start easing the tape from his mouth.  Your words are quick and quiet. “Your legs still work?  Let’s get you in the car, okay?”

“Muh, yeah, s’go.”

While you collect your weapons, Dean climbs up off the ground in four stages, and then you’re back under his arm, matching his steps.

Out here, his broken tattoo leaves him vulnerable; in the car he’s warded and safe.  So you don’t really stop, and he doesn’t argue, when you choose the backseat and help him dive in.  You’re driving, fishtailing out of there and flooring it for all of 100 yards before getting Sam on the phone.  “I got him.  He’ll be okay.”

“Okay, good,” Sam replies.  “You want me to come anyway.”

“Yeah, book us a room somewhere different, and we’ll meet you there.”

“Alright, I’ll text.”

It’s only a few more minutes before you reach some sort of civilisation.  You lighten the foot, remember your road rules, and pull over on the main strip amongst the restaurants and movie theatres.  Slipping over the seat and into the back, you reach for Dean, palm to his jaw to help him straighten up. “Tell me what hurts. What’s broken?”

“Nothin’,” he slurs.  “Maybe a rib.”

Kneeling next to him is awkward, but you burn your thigh muscles to lean over and see, peek under an eyelid with a gentle thumb.

“Hey,” he pulls at your hand and lifts his head to talk to you, but you pluck up his shirts instead, trying to check for bruises.  “Hey, I’m gonna pee blood, but that’s all. I’m good enough.”

One harsh sigh and you sit back and look at him.  He still holds your wrist and you pick up his other, run your thumb over the hot skin where it’s been rubbed raw.

“You were early,” he says, exhaling the words.

“You had plans?” you ask, eyebrow high.

“They expected… you,” he puffs. “The one, the demon, they meant for me… wasn’t there yet.”

They meant to present him already possessed, maybe turn him in front of you or Sam.  You lean up again and run your thumb over his eyebrow, note the split lip, the shining cheekbone and early colours.  “Still woulda shot your possessed ass,” you mutter, “but I’d have tried for your shoulder. I guess.”

“I know it,” he smirks as best he can.

…

After you’ve cleaned Dean’s wounds in a properly lit room, and Sam’s satisfied himself that his brother will survive alright, he heads out to get himself the dinner he’d missed in the rush, and you make sure Dean gets some appropriate drugs.  

He’s been easy this time.  No griping about the fuss, no waving away the attention.  No sass or feigned bravado.  Plain answers and patient silence.

“Okay, that’s two types of pain killer,” you sigh, sitting by his legs as he leans against the headboard. “And you’re all tucked snuggily-buggily.  Not sure you can take much more ice without some hypothermia starting up, and you need to rest.  You want anything else?  Some cut fruit? An ice pop?  Binky?”

Dean grins slackly, but his gaze slips down to the blanket between you, the distance between your hand and his.

“What?  What’s up?”

It’s a few lazy blinks before he talks.  “Thanks for saving me,” he says quietly.  “It’s nice, bein’ saved.”

“That was nice?”

“It was nice,” he says, licking at the fat cut before he talks to your hands, “listening to you exorcise those assholes with… with your arms around me.”

You look down at your hands too, watch his curl into a loose fist of self-control.  “I felt protected, is all.  And it was nice.”

“It was nice to be able to do it.”  He looks up at you, too tired to pretend anything, so you’re honest too.  “But it still scared the shit out of me.  Driving all that way, trying not to think of you being hauled off, and God knows what.” You run a secret finger over the back of his, just where you can reach without moving. “You never think they’re gonna do it, and then, for a second, you imagine they already have… It’s hard to not panic and bomb the place.”

He licks his cut again as his finger twitches out towards yours, a little hook in reply, and nods his understanding, but he’s quiet then, apparently having said all he means to say.

This weekend, this stupid indulgent time, where you thought you might make sense of Dean’s redacted flirts and shrugged-off concern, has gone sideways and you can’t tell how.  You were so ready to face him and offer up how you felt, and you haven’t even shared a table yet.  Clearly taking the time doesn’t mean you’re going to get it, so there’s no way you’re leaving it there.  “Think I might need a hug,” you shrug, “after such an ordeal.”

One long breath and he drawls “Aw well come on in for that then,” and he smiles, leaning back as he waves you into his arms.  “Gentle, but.”

“Yeah-yeah.”  But you get up and kneel on the bed, throw a leg over his lap as he’s under the blankets, and the next breath out is warm and low as Dean leans forward and finds the place where he was, arms around you, ear to your chest, and you hug him kind and close.

“Hmmm.”  He nods up a little, nudging your chin, and you rub it back and forth over his hair, hands spread broad over his back as though you could cover every inch in your hold.

“Yeah, better than aspirin.”

Quiet seconds pass, and you feel his breath move in and out of him, hope your heart isn’t beating too fast, and after a while he moves his hands, not to leave but to feel, reaching around your waist.  You slide a hand up, wrap your fingers loose around the warmth of his neck, and let your thumb tuck in front of his ear again, even dare to let the smell and warmth of him feel like a home away.

After a while it sounds like you’re both waiting here until you know what to say… or until Dean falls asleep.

“Do I have to choose between keeping this hug and laying down?” His words seem much clearer now, heavy with weariness, but sure.

“I think you might,” you reply quietly.  “I need a shower.”

“Hm.  Any chance we could find a compromise after?”

“Yeah.” You run your fingers through his hair, press your lips to his head.  “I think we could find something we agree on.”

With a long breath in, he leans back, his gaze climbing up to your eyes and you curl over, slump between his spreading thighs so he doesn’t have to tilt his head up too far.  It’s the last shred of energy, sent to you in his gaze, and when you don’t look away he takes his time, mapping the shards of colour, taking you in all at once, until he eventually looks down, at your mouth, and leans for it.

“Just, gently,” he says, letting his nose slide alongside yours.

“I can be gentle.”

With the slightest of nudges, he slots his lips to yours and holds it, lets it be felt a moment before moving at all.  But with the guiding of your palms around his ears, he understands to let you do it, and you tilt and kiss, light but full, the ebbing motion slowly easing his lips apart so you can drag the tip of your tongue along his bottom lip.  It’s just a slow brush, and only where he isn’t hurt, but it’s so specific, so careful, that when he reaches his tongue across his teeth to meet you and you kiss the tip neat and tight, it makes him suck a breath and pull back.  “Later,” he says.  “Just, uh.  This is enough.”

“Sure, sorry.”

“No no, it’s good.”  He looks back at you again, heavy with intentions.  “Good to know. Just uh… thank god they didn’t hit me in the junk, is all.”

You smile and drag your fingers as if to arrange the short strands at his temple.  “I’m not sure which of us is more thankful.”

He would laugh, if it didn’t hurt, so he smirks the clear parts of his face. Then he checks for your thoughts, looks at you with the question like _Really?_ and locks onto the desire you’re willing to show him now, returning it.  

You watch your fingers on his skin, and thumb over his lip once or twice before making the break.  “I’m gonna go get clean, and then I’m gonna come back here, ok?  Keep myself handy in case you need anything.”

“Okay.”  Dean lets you go, watches his hands drag down your arms as you pull away. “Lookin’ forward to it.”

You help him lay back, tuck him in and lean down to kiss his cheek before you go, but he holds you there, hooks his fingers over your neck so he can turn into it.  “Thanks for taking pity on a sick old man.”

“You’re not sick; you’re injured.” You lean over him as he relaxes, with his hand heavy in your hair, minutes away from sleep.  “And you’re not old.”

Huh, say his eyebrows.  He doesn’t believe you.

“You’re _experienced_ ,” you say quietly, “by which I mean ancient.”

That does make him laugh, and he winces into it.  “Oh, you’re so mean.”

It’s a frustrating kind of joy, showering with purpose that won’t be spent.  Normally you get the job done and maybe lean into the pressure a bit, but this time you clean yourself with Dean in mind, even consider shaving, though it’d be a thankless effort this evening.  Still, looking at the parts of you so rarely seen by anyone else, thinking that Dean might be the one who sees them next, it’s fuel.  So you get out there quicker than usual, slip under the covers next to his sleeping, exhausted body and slide your fingers down his arm until your palms meet.

When you next open your eyes, Dean’s are inches away, watching you in the dawn light.  Sam snores on the other bed beyond him.

“What you are up to?” you whisper, feeling weighed down with the ache of battle while you lay on your belly.

Dean tucks your hair away, then holds his breath, grunting as he moves onto his side, closer to you, so that your foreheads touch and his arm can reach across the back of your waist.  He hooks his hand around there, squeezes the softness, and shifts a little so that his lips lean against your forehead.

“I’m dreaming,” he murmurs.  “Go back to sleep.”


End file.
